


Hellebores

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam brings Frodo a pie wholly unprepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellebores

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to imera for inspiring me when I was too down to write!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For once, it’s a long trudge up the hill. Most days, Sam hardly notices—he _enjoys_ his job, even in the winter, when everything’s too frosty and frozen for him to do much at all. He comes anyway, but less so, and he misses the warmer days when he has an excuse to come by Frodo’s home every morning. 

Today he has no excuse—he’s got most things covered for the winter and nothing left to do about it. But he wanders up the path anyway, until he’s in front of the familiar green door, and he has to shift the pie around in his arm to free a hand to knock. He’s been muddling with the recipe for days, and finally it’s _perfect_ , or as near as he can get it, and if it can put a smile on his old gaffer’s face, surely it can on Frodo’s. It’s a flimsy reason to come up, but it’s the best he could think of, and he sucks in an anxious breath when the door swings open. 

Frodo says, “Sam,” and smiles, blue eyes crinkling with delight for no good reason. Sam goes half tongue-tied, as he so often does, and means to thrust out the pie, but instead glances down and just sort of gapes, mouth falling open. 

Frodo’s wearing a long, wide knit sweater, far too big on him with the neckline slipping down one shoulder to show a tantalizing peek of skin. The sleeves come all the way down to the tips of his fingers, and the hem hides his waist like a dress. It’s a pastel salmon pink, lovely against his pale skin, paler in the cold. He looks _adorable_. Better than that. Cute, and pretty, and completely delicious—far more delectable than any pie Sam could bake. And when Sam gets over _staring_ , he realizes the sweater looks familiar.

His brows knit together, and Frodo’s cheeks abruptly flush. He glances down at himself, then looks sheepishly back up, hunches his shoulders together and murmurs, “Oh! I almost forgot, I’m sorry, Sam. You must’ve left your sweater here last year—I found it in the back of my closet, and it just looked so much warmer than anything I had so I... I’m sorry. I was going to give it back to you next time I saw you.” Except he didn’t just come down to give it to Sam, and they live so very close, and Sam’s not sure he wants Frodo to give it back anyway. The idea of Frodo running around in his clothes is...

Sure he’s blushing harder than Frodo, Sam mumbles, “Keep it. It looks good on you.” Then the blush deepens, and Frodo laughs. It looks far better than it would on Sam, in any case. He doesn’t remember particularly liking it, but it looks so alluring on Frodo’s gorgeous body. Albeit like most things.

Smiling, Frodo teases, “It’s far too big for me; I look awkward.”

“No, no,” Sam insists before he can stop himself, “you look beautiful.” His face grows so hot he thinks he might faint, but it’s worth it for Frodo’s wondrous grin. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Sam tries to look away, tries to be a little less _obvious_ in how much he wants to eat Frodo alive, but he can’t do it. His eyes are glued to Frodo. 

Frodo looks down instead, tilting his head to the side and asking, “What’s that?”

Sam starts, forgets, then grips the pie tight and holds it out, blurting just, “Pie.”

Frodo laughs again to ask, “I steal your sweater and you give me a gift? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Sam opens his mouth, even though he has nothing to say, other than simply that he _adores_ Frodo and would shower Frodo in a lot more than clothes and sweets if he could. But Bilbo saves him, wandering up from behind Frodo to peer through the open door. His smile is quite kindly, and he greets, “Sam, my boy! What bring you up here in this dreadful cold?”

“He brought us pie,” Frodo says over his shoulders, saving Sam the trouble.

“What a treat, thank you,” Bilbo says, and he reaches over Frodo to open the door wider, offering, “Won’t you come in and have some?”

Sam would love to. He always loves being in Bag End. He did when he was younger to listen to Bilbo’s stories, to learn his letters, to pick up a song or two, and he still has as he’s grown, with Frodo’s company to look forward to. But when he looks at Frodo now, he knows he won’t last. He’d probably jump Frodo two steps in the door, and Bilbo deserves better than that. Sam’s not sure what he thought would happen when he set out in the first place. Maybe he just wanted to see Frodo smile. He got that. He didn’t count on his own sweater hanging off Frodo’s shoulder, looking one good tug away from falling. 

Somehow, he manages to mutter, “Oh, thank you, I’m sorry, I... I left my old gaffer alone—I was supposed to help him with dinner, I...” And he just sort of trails off, because Frodo’s already passing the pie to Bilbo, and when he turns, it exposes more of his shoulder and a bit of his collarbone for Sam’s hungry gaze.

Then Frodo chirps, “Well, thank you, Sam,” and he leans forward to peck Sam’s cheek, warm and soft and enough to make Sam melt into a puddle, “for both the pie and the sweater.” He waves before he closes the door, leaving Sam alone and dizzy. 

He’s never felt such a fool. A part of him wants to leap through the window. Maybe he’d land right on top of Frodo, and Bilbo would be too busy eating pie to notice.

Instead, he turns to trudge back down the path. He gets about five steps before he’s shaking too much not to turn, and he races back up to Bag End so hastily he almost runs straight into the door, where he’s swiftly let inside by Frodo’s waiting arms.


End file.
